by Diana Quincy
“Whatever for? Dammit, Banks, you should be able to handle this matter without involving me.” Foster certainly would have.
Banks’s ears reddened. “My apologies, Your Grace. I shall go directly and visit Mrs. Redding and close this matter once and for all.”
Hunt pushed his chair back with a clatter as he came to his feet. “Do not bother. I’ll see to Georgina myself.” He might as well. Hunt certainly wasn’t getting any work done. Some fresh air and exercise might help clear his head.
“I’ll ask Hughes to alert the coachman.”
“No need. I’ll walk.” He shut the study door behind him.
It was a brisk day, with the sun sheltered behind the clouds, but Hunt hardly noticed. Burrowing his hands into the pockets of his greatcoat, he strode to his property on Half Moon Street, a tidy brick-fronted house where Georgina had resided these past four years. She was his first mistress. She would also be his last.
Georgina received him as soon as he arrived. “Your Grace.” Her smile was warm and gracious.
“Hello, Georgina.” He drew off his hat and coat, handing both to the waiting footman, who quickly vanished.
“It is good of you to call,” she said, inviting him to join her on the chintz sofa.
“It is not as though you gave me a choice.”
“We both know that is not true. No one can force the Duke of Huntington to do anything he doesn’t care to.”
He sat. Reluctantly. “Why am I here, Georgina?”
“I could ask you the same question.”
“You are the one who asked me to call.”
“I understand you are replacing me.”
“I am not replacing you. But I am ending our arrangement.”
“After four years together.”
“Precisely.” What was she about? “Did you not receive my parting gift?”
“I did. It was very generous.”
“Then what is the problem?”
“Have I been a suitable companion to you?”
“Yes. Very.”
“I see.”
“I don’t.” He allowed his frustration to show. “Why am I here?”
“Because it is customary for a protector to end an agreement such as ours in person. Not through a new secretary I’ve never heard of and have had no previous dealings with.”
Hunt finally understood. He’d inadvertently slighted his former mistress. “Forgive me if I have offended you. It was not my intent. This has been a challenging time.”
“I understand.” Sympathy filled Georgina’s eyes, and he knew she thought of the public humiliation brought on by Victoria’s defection. But it was Leela’s abandonment that gutted him. “I thought you might care to extend our arrangement since you remain unattached.”
It was not an unreasonable suggestion. Up until recently, he viewed his understanding with Georgina as a tidy business arrangement, ideal due to the absence of emotion, attachment or any other distasteful complications. But now, the notion of paying for sex struck Hunt not only as unsavory, but empty, somehow, and devoid of satisfaction. With Leela, the sex had been far more than a physical act. He’d never view sexual congress as purely physical again.
“I do not think so,” he said gently.
“But you said you don’t intend to replace me.”
“That is true. I am not taking another mistress.”
“You are a man with appetites. After four years together, I am in a position to know this.”
“With all due respect, Georgina, how I satisfy my needs going forward is no longer your concern.”
She tilted her head to the side. “Perhaps you have another prospective wife in mind?”
His immediate instinct was to deny it. But the image of Leela flashed in his mind. Those knowing dark eyes smiled at him, beckoned him. Of course, he couldn’t marry Leela. Yet, it struck Hunt with the force of a sledgehammer that he wanted nothing more than to keep Leela with him forever. The duchy be damned.
He shook his head to dislodge the ridiculous notion. He wasn’t thinking clearly. He wasn’t sleeping well. He was exhausted; his mind not at its sharpest. And yet, the thought of taking Leela to wife, of making her his duchess, made his heart feel light in his chest. It almost felt like joy.
“Even if I did have a particular lady in mind,” he said, “I doubt she would have me.”
Georgina responded with an incredulous laugh. “What woman in her right mind wouldn’t want to be your duchess? That girl who ran away with your secretary is a fool. Any woman with half a brain would fall at your feet.”
He smiled to himself. “Except perhaps an extraordinary woman with a mind of her own.”
“Will you let her get away so easily?”
He stood. “No, I don’t think I will.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“Are you searching for a particular Levantine trading house?” asked Mr. Cobb, the man from the Manchester Commercial Society, a group comprised of merchants and manufacturers who traded abroad.
“Are there many of them?” Hunt inquired. He’d arrived in Manchester to search for Leela armed with very little information other than the Peckham House butler’s word that Lady Devon was visiting her grandmother.
“There are at least a half dozen Levantine trading houses here.” Mr. Cobb arranged the papers on his desk. “The export of clean cotton goods from Lancashire to the Levant is a very profitable enterprise. Lancashire sells its goods to the world through us here in Manchester.”
“I was hoping that these Levantine traders you speak of might belong to your organization.”
Cobb pursed his lips. “They keep to themselves, you understand. We don’t mix with them a great deal.”
“I see.” Finding Leela might prove more difficult than Hunt expected. It had not occurred to him that there would be numerous Arab merchants in Manchester. “Might it be helpful for you to know that the family surname is Atwan?”
“Ah, yes.” Comprehension lit the man’s face. “That is very helpful.”
Hope stirred in Hunt. “You’ve heard of them then.”
“Indeed. They are among the more prosperous Levantines in Manchester. You will find the Atwan Trade Company on Park Street just down the road from here.”
About an hour later, after visiting the Atwan Trade Company, Hunt found himself staring up at a two-story brick-fronted house with large sashed windows facing the street. “You are certain this is the place?”
“Yes, Your Grace,” his coachman replied. “The clerk at the Atwan Trade Company says this is where the Levantine cotton merchant family resides.”
Although modest by Hunt’s standards, the handsome symmetrical house appeared large enough to accommodate five or six bedchambers. Single-story additions on either side of the main house made the structure appear even larger. A black wooden door between the main house and one of the small new wings appeared to lead to a rear garden.
“What is that racket?” Someone was beating a drum somewhere, accompanied by an unfamiliar string instrument that produced a deep mellow sound.
“Perhaps they are entertaining, Your Grace.”
Hunt studied the wooden garden door. “Is the music coming from the back of the house?”
“That is what it sounds like, Your Grace. Shall I go in with you?”
“No, I can manage.” Hunt fervently hoped to find Leela here. He hadn’t traveled all the way to Manchester only to come up empty. He longed to see her. He needed to speak with her, to settle their future. Although he wasn’t entirely certain what that meant.
The black door gave way when Hunt tried to knock on it, so he let himself in and followed the racket to a sizable garden behind the house. He came upon a line of dancing men and women holding hands as they moved to the rhythm of the music produced by two men sitting nearby. One musician sat on a square, low-to-the-ground stool playing a small round drum. He had the instrument’s long narrow neck braced between his thighs as he pounded a beat with the flats of his hands. Next
to him, a man sat cross-legged on the ground, playing a pear-shaped stringed instrument.
The people they played for danced with vigorous enthusiasm, crossing one leg over the other, adding in hops with definite flourish. Their energetic movements and obvious joy were at odds with traditional English dances that Hunt was accustomed to, which were characterized by polite restraint and adherence to neat and precise steps. The man at the lead, perhaps in his late twenties, was particularly skilled and appeared to set the tempo for the others. About half a dozen men were at the head of the line, with a handful of women bringing up the rear.
Hunt’s eye caught on the last woman in line. Her face was flushed, her eyes sparkling as she followed the steps, perhaps with less skill, but with no less enthusiasm, than the rest of the revelers. Her long curls had escaped their restraints, cascading down her back. Leela laughed as she missed a step. The young woman next to her, with dark straight hair and striking ebony eyes, spoke in Leela’s ear, instructing her as both looked down at their feet. Leela’s face was a study in concentration as she attempted to copy her companion’s dance steps.
Longing curled inside Hunt’s gut. He’d missed Leela terribly. But somehow, seeing her at home among this foreign merchant family made her feel farther away than ever, even though she stood just yards from him. Among the ton, Leela stood out due to her beautiful coloring, the midnight hair and bronzed skin. But here, among her mother’s people, she blended in with the merrymakers.
Hunt’s skin prickled. He felt a bit self-conscious. For the first time in his life, he was the one who was noticeably out of place. It was an extraordinary sensation. Hunt had never experienced what it was not to belong, to be the sole person in a group who was different.
Losing his brother hadn’t been easy, but sliding into his ducal role came naturally. He enjoyed the challenge of running the duchy and quickly became accustomed to the deference society showed him due to his rank. Usually, he commanded a room. But here he was an interloper, the odd one out in the crowd. He stood out, and not necessarily in a positive way. It was a sensation he’d never experienced before.
“May I help you?” A man in his late forties, with silver eyes and abundant matching curly hair, regarded Hunt with a polite inquiring expression.
“Yes, I am sorry to intrude.” Hunt cleared his throat. “I am the Duke of Huntington. I am here to call upon Lady Devon.”
“Hunt?” He recognized Leela’s voice. “What are you doing here?”
He turned to find himself staring into her curious gaze. She was out of breath from dancing. Her hair a gorgeous mess around her shoulders. She looked beautiful.
“Forgive my intrusion.” He shifted his weight to the other foot. “I did not mean to interrupt your party.”
“It is just family. You are not interrupting.”
“Family?” He surveyed the garden, the older men sitting around smoking a hookah water pipe, the dancing men and women, and those who watched them, young and old, sitting in a large ragged circle. A handful of children raced through the garden, sidestepping the adults. There were at least twenty-five people present. “All of these people are your relations?”
“My grandmother, aunts, uncles and cousins. Not all of them of course.”
“There are more?” Hunt had seven cousins in total, on both sides of the family, including his cousin Alfred, who stood to inherit the duchy should Hunt fail to produce an heir.
Her eyes twinkled. “So I am told. My mother had six brothers and sisters. It’s quite a large family.”
How exhausting. “How extraordinary.” The drumming stopped and the man playing the string instrument played on alone. It produced melodic, echoing sounds and felt aggressive at intervals, with lots of picking. The melody conjured up images of vast spaces and faraway places.
“What is that strange instrument?”
“The oud? It’s very similar to a lute. It’s considered to be one of the oldest musical instruments in the world.” She turned to lead him into the house. “Come, let’s go somewhere we can speak more privately.” He followed her into a room dominated by a long wooden dining table surrounded by assorted mismatched chairs, some with upholstered backs, others with ladder backs. A fire burned in the marble hearth on one side of the chamber. Books lined built-in shelves on the opposite wall.
Hunt looked around. “What is this room?”
“The dining room.” She gently teased him, “Come now, it’s not as elaborate as the one you have at Weston House, but surely you can recognize a dining chamber when you see one.”
“I’ve never seen anyone set up bookshelves in a dining room.”
She smiled, her eyes crinkling. She was happy to see him. “People of limited means must find multiple uses for rooms.”
“So I see.” The books did lend a certain warmth to the chamber. He could envision Leela sitting before the fire with a book. He paused, taking a moment to soak in the sight of her. The mass of unruly curls, her serious gaze, which stayed level with his. He wanted nothing more than to close the gap between them and take her into his arms.
The color in her cheeks deepened. “Why are you here?”
“I miss you.” I cannot stand to be without you. “And I fear too many things were left unsaid at our last meeting.”
“I miss you, too.” The pull between them intensified. As though a hundred men were pushing Hunt toward her. “But I do not see a solution to our dilemma.”
“I do. You could marry me.”
Her eyes rounded. “Marry you?”
“Yes. Why not?” His heart thrashed against his ribs. He hadn’t intended to propose. The words just erupted from his mouth, like a volcano that had to purge itself. But he didn’t regret his impulsiveness. Not one bit. “We are both adults. We can do as we please.”
“I think we both know that is not true. Society would destroy us.”
“It didn’t destroy your parents. You’ve said yourself that they cared deeply for one another.”
“Mama also kept me and Alexander away from her family, which is unnatural. Aside from Citi, my grandmother, I’d never met any of my aunts and uncles and cousins until this visit.”
“What does that have to do with you becoming my duchess?”
“Mama kept us away from the Arab side of our family because she believed we couldn’t be completely English if we embraced this part of our identity.”
He thought of how happy she’d looked dancing with her cousins. “You are content here among them.”
“I feel a definite affinity with my relatives here, a sense of belonging that has eluded me until now.”
He found that difficult to grasp. Leela had been born and bred in the highest echelons of society. And yet she somehow felt at home here among the middle-class relations she’d only just met? “Even though they are merchants and you are a countess?”
“When you strip all of that away, they are my family. I see myself in them.”
“You are also the daughter and sister of a marquess. That is equally a part of you. You were born to fill the role of a duchess.”
She grimaced. “I would make a terrible duchess.”
He shook his head. “I saw how you presided over the table at Lambert Hall. You are a masterful hostess, just as your mother taught you to be.”
“I can preside over a household, but I cannot do as my mother did and all but abandon my family. Especially not now when I’ve just found them. I will not pretend this part of my family does not exist.”
“I would never ask you to.”
“You say that now because you miss me. As I miss you. Terribly.”
“I am sincere. You must believe me. You should come and visit your family whenever you like.”
“And what about you? Would you come too?”
He paused. He could not imagine himself sitting, dancing and laughing among Leela’s extended family. He didn’t even interact with his own family in that manner. Formality dictated every interaction with his late parents and certa
inly with what few cousins he had. “If it would make you happy.”
“But would it make you happy?”
“What difference does it make?” He stepped closer, dying to touch her, to feel the warmth of her skin, but he restrained himself. Just barely. “The point I am trying to make is that I would do anything for you.”
“And what about heirs? I am, in all likelihood, barren.”
“Your husband was old and suffering from the aftereffects of a dissolute lifestyle by the time you wed him. It could have been a problem on his part.”
“You and I have lain together several times,” she pointed out. “I am not with child.”
“If I do not produce an heir, so be it. My cousin Alfred will inherit. He already has two young sons. The succession is assured.”
“You should have children of your own.”
“I prefer to have you by my side than a bunch of brats nipping at my ankles.”
“What about my work, my writing?”
“Must you continue traveling?” He tried to keep the desperation out of his voice. He would hate for her to leave him to his own devices for months at a time. “Could you not find something to write about closer to home?”
She smiled sadly. “It will not work.”
“It will. Travel if you must. I will be at home waiting for you, missing your terribly, but I would never keep you from writing your books.”
“Oh, Hunt.” The restraint between them broke. She rushed into his arms.
He tightened his embrace, enveloping her in his love. “Please stay with me.” He inhaled her warmth, the sweet scent of exertion mixed with her floral hair rinse. “We can make it work.”
“I want to,” she whispered. “More than anything.”
His lips found hers. He kissed her hungrily, deeply, imbuing everything he felt for her into the intimacy. She returned his enthusiasm, her tongue mating with his, until they were both out of breath and his blood was hot and the natural course of things would be to make love to her right there on the dining room table.
And yet, as much as he wanted to deny it, he felt her slipping away. “But you won’t, will you,” he whispered into her ear. “You won’t stay with me.”